Contraband
by Charlie42
Summary: Under the guise of a false friendship dictated by galleons, Sirius sets about corrupting a blunt Hufflepuff that wasn't so innocent to begin with. From his influence Florence learns about loyalty and trust. But the question is, can Sirius trust her?
1. Contraband

**Hello, Charlie here. Just a quick note, Florence isn't strictly an OC. She's mentioned in the Goblet of Fire as a girl who attended Hogwarts at the same time as Bertha Jorkins, and who was caught kissing an unidentified boy behind the Hogwarts' greenhouses by Bertha. Some other minor canon characters pop up, mainly Mundungus Fletcher, Otto Bagman, Harold Skively and Doris Purkiss. Here is the full summary:**

_Florence is a blunt Hufflepuff with a strong desire to move out of home and a lust for money.__She works the odd shift, trades items on the Hogwarts black market and even stoops to the depths of stealing to make her money pouch swell.__Florence and Sirius Black form a peculiar friendship dictated by galleons.__Under the guise of this false friendship, Sirius sets about corrupting a girl that wasn't so innocent to begin with.__From his influence Florence learns about friendship, loyalty and trust.__But the question is, can Sirius trust her?_

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**Contraband**

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His back is bare. He doesn't know it yet but he's vulnerable. He trusts too easily. I think back to where this started, to how he came across me. Back then, I was fraternising with lies and theft. After all the progress I've made, the only thing that's changed is the scenery.

From wallowing in a room that reeked of damp and abandonment, I've progressed to this place of rough charm and warmth. In the old room, the only thing that grew was mould. Here there are flowers tinged with a sinister shade of scarlet drooping outside the window. They're wild and uncared for, but they're pretty all the same.

I sit behind him, gripping my arms around his almost adult frame. I clutch him so tightly my nails tear shallow marks on his chest. His muscles ripple under his skin, reacting to the unexpected sting. I don't mean to hurt him. I have to hold him now because he'll slip quietly away once he finds out what I've done.

In the beginning, I made a list. It was a contraband list, banning anything that could distract me from my chosen path. With a few cutting words, he managed to slip into the number one spot. If only I'd played by my own rules and kept him at a distance. If only I hadn't nibbled at the spilt nectar of the wayward teenager, I wouldn't be responsible for crushing his misplaced trust.

I've always had trouble with apologizing. Drops of water cling to my skin as they cling to his. My lips are colourless and swollen. I'm wracked with regret. He thinks I'm trembling from the cold. He turns towards me and lets me press myself against him with a naked desperation. He thinks I want him for his warmth.

He only ever requested friendship, with the added bonus of one proper kiss. To dissuade the tide of guilt, I need to give him a lot more than that. This is the first time I embrace him first and willingly. I pull him against me, meeting his lips with the intensity of my remorse. He doesn't know it yet, he doesn't know the cause, but this is the consequence. This is my apology.

I have to enjoy him now. It'll be over with soon. After all that's happened, it's going to end how it began, fraternising with lies and theft.


	2. A teaspoon of firewhiskey

**A teaspoon of firewhisky**

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Warm beads of sweat gather at the base of my neck. The sticky liquid seeps into my curls, making their shape slacken. I drag a rubber band off a stack of newspapers behind the bar. With a swift movement I tie my dark hair into an unforgiving bun.

"Four butter beers."

My scrawny arms jerk into the mechanical routine of fetching the bottles and unhinging their lids. Agitation needles my skin as the customer rummages for the money. His hard eyes search the pub for something or someone to save him from impending boredom. There's an endless line of people pressed against the bar, hassling to be served next.

It's essential I don't lose the rhythm of the assembly line of drink pouring. If I do that, if I take a moment to glance up at the customers, the stress of catering to an assorted mix of inebriated magical beings will barge over the barrier of the bar and cause my knees to buckle.

Finally the coins skid across the counter. He tosses them without counting them, without acknowledging my existence with a flash of eye contact.

"Keep the change."

"Gee, thanks," I scoff at the petty tip of five knuts. My frustration falls on deaf ears. The teenager with a feathered mess of hair has already embarked on the harrowing journey back to his table. The throng of colliding shoulders quickly swallows him. I sweep the coins carefully off the counter and tuck them deep into the security of my sock. Waste not, want not.

"Florence, slip us a free drink, will you?" Mundungus Fletcher swings himself up onto a bar stool, ignoring the outraged customers he's just barged through. An overly preened woman scowls at him. Dung mimes pulling a flea out of his ruffled hair and flicks it in her direction. At least, I think he's miming. You never can tell with him.

I remember when I first started moving in the same circles as Mundungus. It was at the beginning of my rebellious phase, sparked by the news of my dad's engagement. The hasty engagement gave way to marriage to Fifi LePouf, the top heavy manicurist extraordinaire. Fifi is vile. I tend to latch onto anything that doesn't remind me of her, and Dung is the anti-Fifi, if not the anti-christ.

"Not now, Dung. I'm slightly busy," I say sharply, not bothering to hide my annoyance. I wipe the gathering sweat from my forehead, the physical evidence of my hard work tonight. Hardworking. A reasonable explanation as to why I was sorted into Hufflepuff.

"I've got three knuts. What'll that get me? A teaspoon of firewhisky?" Dung spits gratuitously into a bowl of crisps as Madame Rosmerta emerges from the cellar.

"Florence dear, is this a friend of yours?" She questions in a strained voice, slapping Dung's dirty fingers from a customers back pocket. I stare blankly at his goofy grin.

"No. I don't know him." Loyalty. A gaping contradiction as to why I was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Madame Rosmerta lets me go for the night. I drop my earnings into my other sock and push slowly through the bubbling crowd. More than once my fingers slip into someone else's pocket and lightly pull out a coin with a subtlety Dung just can't grasp. No one notices the slight touch in the pressing crowd and they're unlikely to notice the absence of a few petty coins later.

Waste not, want not.


	3. The rats of Hogwarts

**The rats of Hogwarts**

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The corridor is almost empty. The Seventh Year Peter Pettigrew is about to walk pass me. His attention is lovingly bestowed on a pack of pristine wizard cards fanned between his stunted fingers. I've never been clumsy but just as I pass him I stumble into his path. The impact is hard. My books and his cards fall from our grip. We both drop to the ground, shuffling our scattered possessions together.

"Sorry. Wasn't looking where I was going," he apologizes while handing me one of my textbooks.

"Co-ordination is a virtue," I reprimand him, leaving him to pick up the remainder of his cards by himself. Rounding the bend, I open my copy of _The Standard Book Of Spells, Grade Six_. As the cover lifts for the first time the spine cracks satisfyingly. The rare wizard card I'd been aiming for in the collision slides into my hand. A weaved figure of a pious monk looks down on me, waggling a disapproving finger.

"Tell anyone and I'll detangle your threads," I threaten, before pushing the heavy tapestry aside and descending the hidden staircase. The stairs flitter by underneath swift feet. As I plunge lower into the bowels of the school the increasing cold sinks right through to my bones. I hurry down a pitch-black corridor, teeth gently chattering.

The rooms I pass are being used for all kinds of forbidden things. In one room, blood-thirsty students bet on a feral cat and dog, pitted against each other in an illegal fight. I grimace as pained howls follow me down the corridor. I respect cats. Still, I'm not bothered enough to do anything about it.

I push open a door barely held together by slats of rotting wood. As I cross the threshold of the out of use bathroom tension lifts from my shoulders. I feel at ease here in the way that other kids feel comfortable in their common rooms.

These rooms branching off the lightless corridor are in a pocket of the school that hasn't been officially used in years. They're only dusted off and put to educational use when attendance to Hogwarts is abnormally high. Lately, attendance has been eerily low.

Everyone does their best to ignore it but you can't escape the empty feeling that surges through the castle these days. It makes obnoxious kids be louder in their actions just to fill the sprawling space. The silence is s a deafening reminder of all the people who didn't make it back to school this year.

Filch never checks whether these rooms are being put to wanton use. The original stairway to this section of the castle has been sealed off for years. But as is the castle's mysterious way, when one stairway closes another one opens. It's the truly dodgy characters that find their way down here.

I drop onto a stool sitting behind a lopsided desk. A pile of rags dumped on the dirt-coated floor begins to stir. A head extends from the shabby robes on a long neck, like a turtle emerging from his shell. Mundungus is a basic person. Lack of furniture doesn't deter him when he wants to have a lie down.

"Alright, Florence?" He asks in a rough tone. Dung's voice hasn't even broken yet and it already sounds too low for his fifteen years. When it does break it'll compliment his colourful vocabulary perfectly. He's destined to have the seedy snarl of a drunken sailor. I reply to his greeting with a curt nod. I notice a puddle of water expanding around him.

"Why are you wet?"

"Sirius Black," he offers as a scant explanation.

"I thought he liked you."

"He does," he replies indignantly.

"What'd you do to him?"

"Stole this." He holds up a galleon that manages a feeble glint in the dull candlelight crawling around the room.

"He let you keep it?"

"After he held me down in the lake for awhile, yeah. He's a good bloke that Black."

Drowning people is a lovely trait. I stare enviously at his coin. What an easy score. I suppose Sirius Black would have enough galleons to be able to spare one for his unfortunate friend. He deserves to have his finances decreased for being foolish enough to trust someone like Dung in the first place.

I don't feel the need to feel the silence that unfolds between Dung and I. We don't have anything in common, besides nimble fingers. I choose my targets more carefully, though. I only steal from people who are slow on the uptake to ensure success. Not that anyone would suspect me of stealing anyway.

On a superficial level, my pedantic neatness constructs a façade of immediate respectability. Cleanliness is the perfect disguise for ungodliness. My thick locks are always restrained, my nails are trim and my shoes are polished. My large ocher eyes are capable of feigning innocence when they're not hidden under a knitted brow. Being a fragile looking female also helps deflect suspicion. I'm a dirty thief in the body of a girl scout.

Pilfering a measly galleon or wizard card here and there doesn't quite make the money pouch swell enough to satisfy my lust. Pick pocketing is just the warm up jog for aspiring criminals like Dung and I. The real sport is trading in Hogwarts' black market objects.

Me, Dung and two other students are involved what we casually refer to as dodgy dealings. It's an amateur business of sorts. We specialize in getting our tainted hands on as many of Hogwarts' contraband items as possible. We distribute them to grateful students for a suitable price, with added fees for smuggling the items into the school.

This bathroom is our headquarters. We try and do as many black market transactions down here rather than up in the school where the walls whisper. Down here the walls just moan. We keep all our stock down here. Crates of butterbeer and firewhisky fill the blocked off sinks, fireworks are crammed into the crumbling toilets and fanged Frisbees litter the dingy room.

I don't lust after money for the sake of greed. I've got my sights set on independence. In this day and age, nothing comes for free. My independence will come in the form of my own flat. My only desire is a place away from the stale warmth of my current home.

It might not be the average teenager's dream but I've always struggled with being being a teenager. I strive to shed the shackles of childhood, skip the training period of the teen years and get a head start on real life. I'll do anything to save up enough for a flat deposit, whether I earn it legitimately at the Three Broomsticks, by breaking Hogwarts rules or even toying with the law.

I'll ruthlessly pursue my one desire, even if it takes an age, scavenging petty coins and measly cards.


	4. The average wayward teenager

**The Average Wayward Teenager**

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Otto Bagman is a tiny teenager with a huge capacity for happiness. He has a knack for inventing dangerous items capable of lowering your finger count. They immediately become banned from Hogwarts and therefore are highly popular among rowdy students. In common rooms and corridors, his products are always in demand. This makes Otto a profitable commodity in my twisted mind and another one of my partners in our 'dodgy dealings.'

"Let me get this straight," I say, trying to hold the attention of the enthusiastic life force that is Otto Bagman as he bounces around the bathroom. "It's a Fanged Frisbee that's been modified so it explodes on impact?"

"Correct."

"And it's edible?" I can feel the lines of frustration breeding on my forehead.

"Bingo again," Otto winks merrily, blowing a few strands of his blonde mop out of bug-like eyes. "It creates this whole new game play where you can try and throw it into your friends mouth-"

"And then it explodes?"

"Now you're getting it." He gives me two encouraging thumbs up.

"We can't sell these ones," I moan, pressing my cheek against the cool wood of a lopsided desk.

"I think people will enjoy the novelty factor," Otto declares optimistically, nudging his glasses up the minor bump that poses as his nose.

"I don't think anybody is going to enjoy the novelty of their face exploding," I refute him firmly.

"We'll see," Otto ploughs on brightly.

"No we won't, Bagman, because we can't distribute these. Are you mentally challenged?" These last words aren't spoken harshly. I'm genuinely curious.

Otto shrugs in a jovial way to say he's not sure but he wouldn't be surprised. I wrinkle my nose with distaste at his unjustified jolliness. Otto breeds toads in his spare time. Once I told him that I flushed his tadpoles down the sink, just to see if it would make his persistent smile droop. I failed.

"Well if we're not going to sell them, what am I suppose to do with these?" Otto kicks a box of modified fanged Frisbees. He edges slyly away as the box rattles with escalading explosions.

"I'll unload them on Willy Wagstaff. He'll sell anything," Mundungus interrupts, unfolding from the derelict sink he was lounging in. Dung always likes a good excuse to trade with Wagstaff. Willy specializes in selling all the items I draw a line at. He has no boundaries. He'll sell babies to cannibals if the price is right. I may have a desperate need to make money but I'm also terrified of getting in serious trouble. It's a problematic mixture in this field of work.

"And what's he going to sell them as, toys for junior Death Eaters?" Neither of the scraggly teenagers answer me as they leave, juggling the sensitive box between them.

The echo of Otto's whistling is replaced by the grating rhythm of a leaking pipe. Drip. Drip. Drip. I rub my eyes warily. Mentally I'm a footstep away from seizing a moment of peace but there's always some drip of annoyance to shatter the refuge of silence.

I pull out a folded sheet of parchment tucked in my left sock. If I'm carrying any items I shouldn't around the castle I tend to stash them in my footwear. Filch never thinks to check there if he decides to give you an impromptu search. I flatten the parchment, a copy of Filch's contraband list, while scanning the disused bathroom.

We seem to have all the things in stock that the average wayward teenager requires to enjoy themselves. With Filch's contraband list taken care of I pull out a different piece of parchment from my right sock. This parchment is clearly older. The fibers are thinning, the edges soft and worn. The neat heading reads: _Florence's Contraband List_.

My sprawling list bans all the things that could distract me from accumulating my deposit money. I draw a line from the subheading 'distractions' with ink uplifted from the supply closet. _Dripping pipes_. Content with this addition I file the list back into my sock.

I pause, listening for approaching footsteps. Satisfied with my solitude I quickly shove my hand down the neck of my robe and pull out my warm money pouch. The fact that it fits in my bra is a depressing confession as to how skint I am.

It doesn't take long to count the money twice over, making sure no coins have gone astray in the murky twist and turns of my bust. There are so many more coins I need to pilfer before I reach enough for a flat deposit, enough for my own haven of silence. There are so many more barriers I need to bulldoze before I have my peace.

Drip. Drip. Drip.


	5. A wall of dusty mirrors

**A Wall of Dusty Mirrors**

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Another day, another class period spent in a bathroom festering with mould. A wall of dusty mirrors forces my reflection on me. I've got a ghostly complexion, dusted with transparent freckles. When I stand next to Nearly Headless Nick, playing spot the difference is almost impossible. Except for the fact that his head unhinges. I haven't figured out how to do that with mine yet. My almost unhealthy complexion does have its benefits. Constantly looking faint greatly simplifies the getting out of class process. Normal teenagers would ditch a lesson to pursue the flippant hobby of having fun. I spend my stolen hours of freedom pacing a damp bathroom, trying to dredge up dodgy shortcuts to making money.

I find the squalid bathroom comforting, in a way. This is what real life is, a series of toilet bowls and broken plumbing. Hogwarts on the other hand, isn't real. It's a demented social experiment that pampers impressionable minds. In the real world majestic four poster beds aren't dealt out like a pack of cards. I retreat to my trusty stool, bending one spindly leg over the other. Pacing isn't yielding any epiphanies today. My fingers drum dully on the slanted desk. My nails aren't long enough to produce the satisfying clicking noise when they connect with the wood.

I hate letting time slip by, wasted in the absence of productivity. I hate letting time slip by full stop. I seize a handful of mints from a nearby box. As well as dealing in contraband items, we also sell a bunch of stuff that students are too lazy to get for themselves. There are loads of sweets scattered around the dreary room, their garish wrappers providing the only bursts of colour that fight against the heavy film of darkness. Sweets are much too sickly for my fickle taste. I only ever indulge in the mints when I'm desperate for sustenance.

My scattered thoughts are interrupted as Doris Purkiss catapults into the room. She's clearly ruffled, her robes are askew and her upper arms are waggling impatiently. She's emitting an animalistic odour resembling something like unbridled lust. I have mixed reactions to her arrival. On one hand I'm desperate for some form of work, and she's bound to be here to make some petty request, as usual. On the other hand, it's Doris Purkiss. I spit the mint lolling about in my mouth out as if it were a bullet. It bounces off her shoe as she dumps herself onto a crate. That was just a warning shot, telling her not to try my patience. She flatly ignores it.

"What is it that you want, Doris?" My quill hovers above the customer request log ready to jot down her deepest desires. I'm perpetually in business mode.

"Sirius Black," she says shortly. This could explain the lust.

"The person?" I feel I should clarify this point. I slyly load my mouth up with more mints while she licks some stiff jam off her sleeve.

"No, the signature cologne range," she spits sarcastically, "of course the person." I sigh a sigh so heavy it's difficult to uphold.

"What do you want me to do, stupefy him, bundle him into a sack and let you have your way with him?"

The hesitation while Doris pictures herself violating Sirius in her head is enough of an indication of Doris's mental instability. I don't think I've ever met anyone so deluded as Doris. Having a conversation with her is trying; her attention is always fixed on some graphic fantasy playing out in her mind. I spit a mint in her direction. It sails over her wide shoulder but she's too lost in thoughts of Sirius to notice. I have to amuse myself somehow in the dank dungeon.

"Do you have any serious requests for contraband items?" I ask, twirling a mint with my tongue, preparing for the next assault.

"I am serious, Florence." Doris attempts to sound threatening by dropping her voice to the depths of her throat and squinting her eyes at me. She looks constipated. Maybe I should just get her some laxatives and we'll call it even.

"I want Sirius Black," she repeats menacingly, completely unaware I'm spitting mints at her whenever her eyes wander. "I'm a very determined person, Florence."

I don't doubt that. I remember the time Doris and Bertha Jorkins were fighting over the same slice of Cauldron Cake. Let's just say Bertha had a bit of extra padding in her bra that night, of the raspberry jelly variety. Doris is brutal when she's got a hunger for something.

"You're resourceful, Florence. You'll think of something." She tries to wink slyly at me but her eyelid disappears into her inflated cheek. The sad thing is this isn't the first request for Sirius Black I've had. His value on the Hogwarts black market has skyrocketed since he's become a homeowner. Oh, the deep cutting jealousy this fact inspires in me. Sirius Black wants to move out and an inheritance pops up conveniently. I want to move out and I have to trudge down a tangled path of petty crime to get there.

"Sirius Black isn't on the contraband list. This isn't my department." I discharge another mint at the conclusion of my sentence. This one tangles in her electrified blonde bob. My aim is definitely improving.

"It's against the rules to trade people, so therefore he should be. I'm desperate, Florence."

"Clearly," I mumble, not too quietly. The magic Doris has been rumoured to do with her wand mustn't be the doing job anymore. I repress a cheer as a mint bullet grazes her cheek. Doris can't deny the hit. She stares up at the ceiling.

"Is it raining?" She asks foolishly, her nose crumpled in confusion.

"One of the pipes is leaking," I tell her honestly, but fail to note that the broken pipe is on the other side of the room. Without missing a beat she's transferred her weight onto a different crate, determined not to be distracted.

"I've tried everything, he won't even take me behind greenhouse three," Doris whines with all the grace of an elephant donning stilettos. Greenhouse three is an infamous snog location. The dangerous plants housed there seem to infect the air with randy variety pheromones.

"Doris," I say sternly, demanding her fickle attention. I've run out of mints and therefore have no desire to continue this conversation.

"Yes?"

"Please leave," I request curtly.

"But-"

"Door." I point at it just to clarify the definition of the word.

"I'll do anything-"

"Try telling him that. That might work." Doris' erratic voice continues to rattle on. I strategically place both hands over my ears. My hands aren't fool proof, though. I can still here the mindless repetition of, "I want Sirius Black," in a duet with the drip. Drip. Drip. Sirius Black is one contraband item I just can't get.


	6. No-man's land

**The no-man's land between childhood and adulthood**

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"You've got food on your chin, below the cluster of pimples. No, not that cluster, the one that's pulsating."

Harold Skively gives up the search and throws his hand down defiantly. He's trying to look nonplussed, as if he's intentionally advertising what he had for breakfast on his face.

"I'm not bothered," he grumbles, his embarrassment yielding to an unattractive stubborn streak. Skively tries to shrug his shoulders but to be honest he doesn't have any. His arms appear to be attached directly to his neck so that he has the slippery posture of a polar bear.

"It's challenging my ability to have a conversation with you," I state simply. Skively has reached a difficult age. He's fourteen going on fickle. His vocabulary is limited to grunts and a mask of throbbing pimples obscures his perfectly acceptable facial features. It's quite understandable that he's going through a self-conscious phase but if he wants to make it through the no-man land between childhood and adulthood he's going to have to toughen up. Lucky for him he has me to poke holes in his surly teenage armour.

Skively finally wipes the egg away while furtively flipping me off. His insolent behaviour towards me just confirms my suspicions that he sees me as the mother he never had. Actually I have no clue whether he has a mother or not. If he does, she should instruct him to wash his face daily to stop the grease from mutating his face any further. Maybe I should send her an owl.

Skively shuffles uncomfortably under the intense gaze I'm directing at his pores. Aware I could criticize him again at any moment, he tosses a wad of parchment onto my desk and slouches into the nearest cubicle and slams the door. Charming. I hope he realizes the plumbing doesn't work down here before he tries anything.

What I find particularly endearing about Skively is how hard he tries to be completely useless. Try as he might, his need to avoid exerting energy has led to a profitable knack for producing get out of class free excuses. This makes him my last partner in in our 'dodgy dealings.' I sift through his recent contribution and happily note that some students will pay a good few sickles for these.

Skively is the blueprint for unhygienic teenage habits. His skin produces enough oil to dress a salad with, his body odor can knock out house elves. Countless times I've sought refuge behind the leather bound customer log in order to deflect his erosive breath. Otto, on the other hand, has breath so fresh and infused with mint it makes my eyes water.

I can smell it from the other side of the bathroom as he fills a blocked sink for his bucket of tadpoles. Otto's biting breath is by no means intentional. It's a byproduct of his unhealthy addiction to toothpaste. He drains tubes of the white paste as quickly as Doris drains my patience.

If only I could somehow fuse Skively and Otto together, maybe their weird habits would cancel each other out and produce a specimen somewhere closer to the vicinity of bearable. My thoughts are disturbed by the alarmingly tall shadow climbing up the opposite wall. It's owner moves into a patch of poor light. My hand flies to my chest in attempt to stop my heart from escaping through my ribcage.

At first sight of the intruder the fickle organ was throbbing with fear. His body is so well developed I mistook him for a teacher. The panic ebbs away as he moves across the room. There's no mistaking the wiry teenage lilt he's yet to shed. He lifts his chin, dislodging his fringe from his eyes. It takes me a few seconds to recognize him. I'm only used to seeing him from a distance.

I've never met Sirius Black but I know enough about him. Our paths have been destined to cross since he's become attached to Mundungus. From what I can gather, he enjoys the novelty of Dung's unapologetically crude nature. Dung is who is he is, even if he is a dishonest, thieving teenage tramp.

The lean Seventh Year soaks up the bathroom with a wary expression. Glancing at him from the isolated world of the Hufflepuff table, I've always found the appeal of his sharp lines too predictable. Up close though, he seems entirely crooked, like a painting that's been hung off kilter. One solitary dimple offsets a slanted smile. His jaw swings to the right, giving the impression that he's constantly chewing on the side of his cheek. To top off his crookedness, one eyebrow is raised higher than the other, as if he's about to ask a question.

"Alright, Lads?" He enquires vaguely. Otto and Skively produce odd noises of acknowledgement. I decline to answer. Anyone in possession of functioning eyeballs should clearly be able to distinguish that I'm not a lad; I'm a lady. I've got two medium sized mammary glands to prove it. I pat my chest to check they're still there. I look up to see that Sirius' crooked features are frozen while he observes me fondle my chest absent-mindedly.

"What are you doing?" He remains unmoving, not wanting to startle me from my strange behaviour. Bugger. I should inform Doris that all she has to do to get Sirius Black's attention is to grope her female parts in front of him. I would do, to, but I think I'll do the student body a favour and save them from such a grotesque sight.

"Checking for cancer," I answer gravely, lowering my hands slowly into my lap. His cold eyes scan me up and down. Their cloudy grey hue echoes the dirty mirrors he's propped against. I can even make out my murky reflection in them.

"Who are you?" He demands in a tone that suggests he finds my existence slightly offensive.

"Florence Penniworth," I answer in a tone that suggest I find his existence slightly irritating. Recognition dawns across his crooked features.

"You're the one who snogged Podmore behind the greenhouse." His defined cheekbones are nudged aside by a vulgar smile. Just dandy. It seems that little nugget of information is destined to be my one claim to fame at Hogwarts. I've trampled down many paths of rebellion in my time. A few years ago I tried my hand at debauchery by letting Sturgis Podmore wiggle his tongue about in my mouth behind greenhouse three.

Unfortunately, Bertha Jorkins was flouncing pass at the time. She ended up publishing a detailed account of it in the gossip rag she printed and distributed for her own demented amusement. All the unwanted attention I got from that brought my promiscuous phase to an abrupt halt. I fail to confirm Sirius' statement, for lack of caring. He fails to leave. My forehead pinches in a slight frown.

"Dung's not here," I say curtly. I often feel as if I should state the obvious, it's one of best attributes.

"I gathered," Sirius replies just as bluntly. His forehead tips in a frown mirroring my own. I bite my indented lower lip. Using the hair tie I keep on stand by I mould my curls into a bun. It's a nervous habit I have whenever I feel like I'm losing control of a situation.

I don't know how to deal with him. He's shooting down my rudeness with a sense of superiority that's challenging my own. He's proving a worthy competitor in the field of discourtesy. My only option is to treat him how I treat most people. I try to ignore him. This quickly proves a challenge.

His limbs sink into smooth movements. He prowls around my territory with the arrogance of a predator. He sifts through our stock, picking something up and then tossing it aside when it fails to impress him. He finishes his inspection of the bathroom and ends up on the other side of my wonky desk.

"Chocolate frogs?" Sirius ridicules with a lofty eyebrow, peering in a crate bulging with the sweets.

"They fell off the back of a carriage, so to speak. We're selling them very cheaply."

Hooking my wand in a groove of the crate, I pull the chocolate frogs away from his curious fingers. As he shoves his hands in his pockets the curiosity swiftly relocates, settling in his hard eyes. He seems calmly baffled by my disregard for niceties.

"Dung's work, I'm guessing," he says, alluding to the fact that they're stolen. He shouldn't guess. He's not very good at it.

"Or was it you? Are you a pick-pocketing menace I should look out for?" He's saying this in joust, completely unsuspecting of my nimble fingered habits.

From what I've heard, Sirius excels at general depravity. But I can tell from his mocking tone that stealing isn't one of the wicked hobbies he indulges in. It's beneath him. For some desperate reason I want him to think it's beneath me too.

"It was Mundungus," I say quietly, focusing on the customer log in front of me. A pointed cough emits from Skively's cubicle, hinting at my lie.

"So, what do you down here?" He asks, trying to sound conversational. There's a challenging glint to his eyes that worries me.

"I guess I find the danger of hanging out with these delinquents exhilarating," I say flatly.

A prolonged splutter bursts from Skively's cubicle. If it were possible to vomit inwardly at what I just said, I'd be doing it. The only time I find Skively's company exhilarating is when he lets me remove his blackheads. It's strangely satisfying.

"Your hair lies," he says shortly. My frown is lost completely in confusion now, let alone irritation. I wasn't expecting this. By all means call me a liar. He'd have hit the nail on the head. But my hair?

"From far away it looks black but it's not. It's a deep brown." I refuse to answer such a pointless and random statement. He refuses to stop speaking.

"Deceitful," he concludes, wrapping up his analysis of my dishonest hair. Through all his pointless ramblings I've noticed a strange pattern in his voice. It always begins by flowing smoothly but the end of his sentences collapse into a rippling growl.

"Your voice is inconsistent," I inform him, getting in the spirit of sharing opinions.

"Your complexion is pasty," he digs. Someone is starting to play dirty.

"Your face is crooked," I hiss, getting defensive. The claws are coming out. The stagnant air bristles with tension. I feel like there's a silent struggle for supremacy weaving through our words. It's a warring of overly confident personalities. I've got the advantage, seeing as he's encroaching on my territory. I wait for his next attack but it doesn't come. He seems to have backed down, for the moment at least.

I begin to fidget under his steady gaze, fastening and unfastening the clasp of my robes. An awkward silence overwhelms the bathroom as his glassy eyes pulse with intrigue. At least it would be silent if it weren't for the fractured pipe loudly pouring its entrails all over the room.

"What's that smell?" I ponder suddenly. This isn't a lame attempt to fill the silence. There is a harsh smell assaulting my nostrils.

"It's like fire…" I continue, breathing in deeply. The mystery substance scratches my throat. While Sirius and I have been talking Otto has left the room. The bathroom is now empty except for me, Sirius and a lavender haze curling above our heads. My eyes narrow suspiciously as I remember Skively still skulking in the closest stall.

"It's not fire! It's-" I yank open Skively's cubicle door and my suspicions are confirmed.

"Smoke." Seems as if Otto didn't leave the room after all. He's with Skively in the cramped stall. Otto balances on top of the toilet while Skively's sits with his legs stacked up against the wall. Both of them peer guiltily through a cloud of smoke. So this is what provoked the coughing fits. I should've known the moment Skively bee-lined towards the one stall overflowing with Otto's popular line of modified Dungbombs, which instead of releasing a putrid smell, dispel a bottled rictusempra charm so that the victims are reduced to paralysing giggles.

"Can you please stop wasting the stock." I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop a verbal spasm from tearing both of them to shreds. Skively takes one of the lavender shelled dungbombs and cracks it defiantly, so that the Rictusempra spell spills out, stored in the rising ribbons of smoke. It would be very cheeky of him if he'd actually activated the bomb properly. Instead it's more smoke than spell that he inhales, and he breaks into a fresh round of coughs.

"Otto you're practically a child. Skively, you're acting like one. Have some self control." My voice snags suddenly. Sirius is standing right behind me. Not only can I feel him touching my back but I can smell him too. The scent is earthy with a subtle sweet undercurrent that's so intoxicating it's poisonous. His tall frame towers over me with terrifying dominance. I ball my fists, trying to hold onto my own faltering self-control. Oxygen takes refuge in my lungs as he leans over my shoulder. Sirius takes a fresh dungbomb from Otto's hand. He cracks the shell cleanly and the smoke rises up. Although he activated it properly, he resists the Rictusempra charm. Only a teasing smile manages to move his lips.

"Is this what you find exhilarating?" His goading voice hangs in the air, twisting with the lethal wisps of smoke. He holds the bomb under my nose. I inhale the smoke bound spell as he did, but for much longer. With every inch of me I resist the tremendous urge to giggle.

I hand it back and push carefully pass him. I hold my composure until I've broken into the lightless corridor, then I collapse into a grating mixture of coughs and awkward laughter. I tried to hold my ground but he's too skilled in the art of intimidation. He's bigger, older and more experienced than me. I never stood a chance.

I rush down the lightless corridor. I need to find a bathroom that works so I can scrub the lecherous stench of smoke from my hands. I think I'll need a cold shower to remove Sirius' lingering presence. Suddenly, I'm almost sent sprawling into the darkness. A skeletal cat threatens to trip me up as it flees from one of the dungeon rooms. It's just been pitted against a much larger dog. I look into the room where students are jeering nastily.

The dog trots around the room with a harsh limp. Tufts of fur have been ripped out from its sore riddled skin. The dog won but not without injury. I can't help but be impressed by the cat managing to leave a mark. The poor cat never had a chance; it was an unfair match, after all. It put up a good fight but in the end, it could only dig its nails into its territory and cower in defense.

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**A/N: In this chapter, Skively and Otto were originally smoking flavoured cigars but I had to change it for the HP boards so I invented the modified Dungbombs to replace them. I was going to change back to the flavoured cigars but I decided that I really liked the idea of the smoke bound Rictusempra spell, and Florence and Sirius trying to resist it's influence.**


	7. The house of the lowly badger

**The House of the Lowly Badger**

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"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'y'," a shiny-cheeked Hufflepuff fledgling declares in a sudden burst of inspiration. My guess is it's the colour yellow; the Hufflepuff common room is drenched in it. I'm not particularly interested in finding out the riveting answer, though. I quietly remove myself from the tightly screwed faces of Hufflepuffs trying to think.

I can't stand the Hufflepuff common room. Everything is upholstered in garish yellow shades that clash terribly with the boisterous fire. Its brightness is blinding. What I find even more suffocating is the brightness of most Hufflepuffs' personalities. There's an undercurrent of easily triggered jubilation in the countenance of a Hufflepuff. Most Hufflepuffs, that is. What the Sorting Hat was smoking when it placed me in the house of the lowly badger, I'd sorely like to know.

It's misfits like me that highlight the huge flaw in the whole boarding system at Hogwarts. People change. Maybe I was the poster child for Hufflepuff when I was eleven but I'm not anymore. Putting people in the wrong house is dangerous. Having Houses at all is dangerous. It teaches kids with the same attributes to band together and celebrate their similarity. We should be taught to appreciate people's differences.

I shake my mop of wet curls that are even more deceitfully black under the dampening influence of water. After my long shower I was hoping to dry off in front of the Hufflepuff fire. My inability to handle Hufflepuffs randomly sprouting words means it's going to take a lot longer for my curls to dry in the drafty corridors of the castle.

As different as the castle's corridors are to the Hufflepuff common room, I don't find the change in scenery any more comforting. It's a cold, hard setting. The painted imitations of people potter pointlessly about their frames. Sure, they have free passage from frame to frame but at the end of the day, there will always be that gilded barrier restricting them from experiencing real life.

Hogwarts is my gilded frame. It's lavish and intricately decorated but it's still a structure that holds me back. At least I'll graduate one day. The people in the portraits are destined to walk these dank halls forever, watching the people they vaguely echo. I've got no love for this castle.

The shower was enough to eradicate the smell of smoke, but it did nothing to wash away the feeling Sirius has stirred in me. I pick at a small mole on my underarm as I turn down another hollow passage. Frustration is stemming from the fact that no one ever manages to leave such a searing imprint on me. It's an imprint of irritation but that doesn't make it acceptable. No one should have the power to occupy my thoughts this much, even if they are thoughts of distaste. That he's rattled me this much is a bullet to my confidence.

How did he succeed in making me so nervous? Maybe it's because I've become so accustomed to spending my time with a group of socially inept scoundrels. Thrust in the company of someone older and more experienced, I was injected with the sudden need to impress. He intimidates me, that's all. Someone was bound to succeed at this task sooner or later.

I pull my sleeves down over my hands as a chill nips at my knuckles. As logical as my conclusion is I can't stop the cogs of my mind from whirring and clicking into overdrive. I feel like the stone must be eroding under my feet, I've trampled up and down these corridors so many times tonight. Turning a corner I nearly collide with a dumpy sort of girl. She flounders desperately as she tries not to make contact with me.

"Hello Florence." Her plain features stir some semblance of familiarity but nothing concrete.

"Do I know you?"

"I've slept in the bed next to you for years," she mutters timidly, a slight air of exasperation breaking through her reedy voice. She has the demeanor of the type of girl that survives on scraps of other people's confidence, for lack of their own. Definitely a Hufflepuff.

"I see. What's your name again?"

"Edith." I already know that that name's going to slip from my long-term memory. It's almost as mundane as her limp brown hair.

"Oh. Are you the one with the snoring problem?"

"I don't know, I certainly hope not."

"If you like, I can wake you up if it is you. That way you can sort it out." Edith doesn't look grateful at the thought of this kind offer. In fact, she looks downright horrified. It's not like I'm going to shove a sock down her throat to alert her to her snoring affliction. I'll just jab her a bit until she stops doing it. Edith tries to slowly edge pass me with shuffling feet. She drops our link of eye contact and makes a run for it.

"Edith!"

"What?" She screams in fright from the sudden pronunciation of her name. I've never met someone so easily excitable before. She swivels around, tilting her head forward. Her dull hair slides over her face, hiding her sweltering expression.

"Have you ever been intimidated by anyone?"

"Yes." Her chin trembles slightly. Surely she's not that much of a social cripple that she's going to breakdown just from having a conversation with me?

"If you don't want to be intimidated by them, how do you stop them from making you feel like that?"

"You avoid them at all costs," she whimpers, while starting to waddle backwards.

"Edith," I call slowly, as if her name is an invisible lasso capable of holding her in place.

"Yes," She halts reluctantly.

"You're a girl."

"True." I'm glad she agrees with me, otherwise she's going to have to change her sleeping arrangements.

"Have you had any experience with…boys?"

Edith's nose contorts in a snort that borders on bitter. "No, Florence."

"Of course you haven't," I say sympathetically, patting her shoulder with two fingers. She flinches under my stiff touch.

"Florence, I'm going to go to bed now," she says tentatively.

"You do that," I reply absent-mindedly, my focus drifting to the other end of the corridor. I've already forgotten she was there. I've met shadows with more personality than that girl.

Avoiding Sirius Black shouldn't be too hard to do since I hardly ever emerge above ground. Our paths never crossed until he took Dung up as his puppet monkey anyway. I excel at avoiding people and I've got my own out of use bathroom to do it in. Still, I'm not comforted. The cogs keep clicking and the mind keeps whirring. I'm in a perpetual state of overdrive.


	8. Spilt Nectar

**Spilt Nectar**

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My thumbnail digs into the fleshy exterior of an orange. The sweet juice filters out, seeking a messy trail down my wrist. I suck absent-mindedly at the spilt nectar, lost in the droning of breakfast chatter. My gaze stumbles around the Great Hall until it trips up on him. He's not commanding attention. In fact, he's shrinking from it. Friends who are being irritatingly rowdy for a Monday morning surround Sirius. He sits calmly amidst the boisterous laughter. I feel safe inspecting him. Nothing could pull him out of the deep trance.

I can understand why Sirius Black always seems so bored. Everything comes too easily for him. He's doomed to be wealthy, even when his parents disown him a respectable sum lands on his lap courtesy of a deceased uncle. He naturally excels at magic and he was built to be an outstanding athlete. Anything he wants, he gets. Nothing's a challenge. His mind must be crawling from the inescapable tedium. Some strands of his feathered fringe are so long they seem to be creeping down to the tip of his nose. He blows them up, sending his fringe into further disarray.

"Florence?" A muffled voice tries to shake me from my bubble of distraction.

"Florence?" A large hand waves impatiently in my face.

"What?" I snap at the bulky frame of Amos Diggory, angry at being brought back to my disappointingly Hufflepuff surroundings.

"Have you got the you-know-what?" He whispers through unmoving lips. I shove my hand into my pocket and slam the wizard card in front of him. He hastily scoops it up, his eyes swiveling shiftily.

"Nice doing business with you, Penniworth." He slides a couple of galleons my way, hidden under his dirty napkin. I flick it off irritably as he scurries out of the hall. He always acts as if a squad of Aurors are going to ambush him in the act, no matter how many times I tell him that wizard cards are not a contraband item. His idiocy makes me scowl purely to myself, but somebody else rudely takes notice.

I'm startled to find that Sirius has emerged sharply from his daze; he seemed so firmly lost in it. His broad shoulders are swelling with laughter that has nothing to do with his lively friends. He's clearly amused by my amateur transaction with Amos. Maybe he'd take me more seriously if he knew I stole the card from Peter Pettigrew's treasured collection. It's all about maximizing profit, after all.

It irks me to be laughed at. It's not that I don't have a sense of humour, it's just strictly directed at the shortcoming of other people. Frowning, I grasp my punctured orange and hurry out of the Great Hall, avoiding his mocking gaze. If I'm going to avoid his intimidation, I guess I'll have to take meals in the dungeon bathroom from now on.


	9. Curious cat

**The cat that got slaughtered by curiosity**

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Who would have thought that there were so many books featured on Hogwarts' contraband list? Trafficking them almost makes me feel like a revolutionary. I'm sticking it to the book burning, fascist attitude of the establishment. Maybe I should burn my bra, just to add fuel to the fire. I sigh as I slip another book on the makeshift shelf sitting above the toilet. In reality, there's hardly anything revolutionary about these banned books. Most of them are smattered with smut. I'm no political activist. I'm a smut-peddling, dealer of vulgarity.

A casual sound grabs my attention. Footsteps. Not stomping footsteps, like Skively's, not skipping ones like Otto's and not dragging steps, like Dung's. It's the echo of someone prowling. I slowly rotate and see Sirius on the other side of the bathroom. He hasn't seen me yet. With painstaking care I inch forward and shut the cubicle door. Just to be safe I slip the lock across. I peek through the space where the door meets its frame. Sirius is still wandering around. Clearly Dung's not in, so why doesn't he just leave? Surely he's not going to wait until he turns up? Dung's probably trying to get Mrs Norris to smoke a dodgy pipe again. He'll be at it for hours.

Sirius shifts out of view. Footsteps peter into the comforting refrain of silence. I think he's gone but I'm not coming out until I'm sure. Better give it an hour or so. I sit down on the lowered toilet seat and pick up _The Probing Wand of Richard Jiggle_. At least I've got plenty of riveting reading material in my cubicle hideout. With a horrifying click the lock recedes and the door swings open. Sirius lowers his wand.

"Reading on the bog, are we?"

"No. I'm working." I try and shove the book inconspicuously back on the shelf. With a flick of his wand it soars into his hand. He considers the title thoroughly entertaining.

"Crude line of business you're involved in," he smirks, his eyebrow lifting suggestively into the lofty shelter of his hairline. I turn sharply away from him and busy myself about alphabetizing the contraband books.

"Florence Penniworth." Sirius coos, drawing the syllables out with great emphasis. He's acting as if I should be greatly honored that he's stored my name in his selective memory.

"I asked around about you," he continues, directing this one-sided conversation at my unresponsive back. He's acting worryingly smug, like he knows something of lethal importance.

"Great," I retort stiffly. Frustration is frothing inside me. Frustration that he's making me nervous, that he's intimidating me again when no one else can. The anger poisons my words so that I'm even more curt then usual.

"Do you know what I found out?"

"My favourite colour is grey?" I snap sarcastically.

"Almost nothing. Seems you're as if you're a bit of an obscurity."

"Almost nothing?" I turn to look at him and immediately regret doing so. I should've learned from the cat that got slaughtered by curiosity. He's wearing a grin that inflates in an instance and grates on me like nails stuttering against a blackboard. I wipe my hands fanatically on my robes. There's something so indecent about the way his mouth twists it makes me feel unclean. It makes me want to never speak a word in front of him again, just incase it triggers that obscene arrangement of his lips.

"Doris Purkiss was more than happy to satisfy my curiosity," he probes. Doris Purkiss would be happy to satisfy him any way he desired. That pudgy wench has nothing on me. She would've said anything to him to keep him in her immediate vicinity. I force my concentration back on the contraband books trying desperately to recall whether C comes before or after W in the alphabet.

"She said you want to move out of your home, get your own place. She said you'd do anything to increase your galleon count," he pushes on, his tone mounting a rising slope to danger.

"Well, I don't know about anything. I refused to kidnap you and leave you at the mercy of Doris' hormones," I say finally.

"Kidnap me? I'd like to see you try."

"Well I'm not going to," I say coldly, rebuffing his playful tone. He's not offended. In fact his pleasure seems to swell with every rude inflection I deliver.

"I've got a proposition for you, Florence."

I have to bite my tongue to hold back a whimper. My one gaping weakness is now at the mercy of Sirius Black. That persistent flaw, my overriding desire for money, can be manipulated for his famously sordid amusement. His hands seize my shoulders. He spins me around, forcing me to face him.

"I've recently come into an inheritance. Got a lot of money to burn," he croons in a semi sing song voice. Sirius starts fiddling with my collar under the pretence of straightening it. It was already fanatically straight to begin with. He lowers his face so it's level with mine. His smile bulges with the looming threat that's about to depart from his lips.

"Everyone has their price," he states, squeezing my cheek in a patronizing pinch. "Apparently, yours isn't that high."


	10. The probing wand of Richard Jiggle

**The probing wand of Richard Jiggle**

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When he said he had a proposition for me many things ran through my mind. Most of them played out like scenes from _The Probing Wand of Richard Jiggle._ All of them were scandalous. I never expected anything like this.

"You want to pay me to be your friend?" I echo him incredulously. This conversation is making me highly edgy. I don't trust him. This reeks of nonsense.

"You've got plenty of friends," I point out coldly.

"Not female friends," he replies swiftly, as if he's rehearsed this conversation in his head and prepared his line of argument.

"You don't need to pay Sirius, girls will be lining up around the corner to be your friend." They'd be lining up to be the flint in his belly button, in all honesty. Sirius shrugs in order to dislodge the ego boosting remark, as if he's a shining beacon of modesty. My level of suspicion inflates to a searing degree.

"So why burn a hole in your pocket just to be friends with me?"

"Listen, Penniworth. I get urges, as most hot-blooded young men do. I tend to act on those urges. I can be a bit…impulsive," Sirius concludes unabashedly. This is possibly the most awkward conversation I've ever had. A teenage boy is describing his manly urges to me.

"I need to be friends with a girl that won't partake in my urges. Someone who's not going to crumble to my advances if I ever get a bit intense."

"You've lost me." Sirius' mouth stutters open and close while he searches for the appropriate explanation. Coming up empty he decides on a different tactic instead. He pushes me hard against the cubicle wall. I turn my head away but to little avail, he forces my face towards him. His tongue darts into my immobile mouth. The touch is bitterly cold, as if an ice cube has just melted on his tongue. The chill revives me from my shocked stupor. I lift my knee and it connects gratifyingly with Sirius' groin. I shove him off and he staggers into the crudely constructed shelves. The collision causes the shelves to collapse, showering Sirius' crumpled body with contraband books. A metallic taste leaks into my mouth.

"You bit my lip!"

"You kneed me in the delicates!" Sirius moans.

"You forced entry into my mouth!" Talk about being a victim of a break and entering. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"I was making a point, albeit a rather painful one," he winces, sitting delicately on the toilet seat.

"And what is the point?" I clench my fists slightly incase he tries another visual demonstration.

"You're the most aggressive girl I've ever met." He tries to smile but the gesture is overwhelmed by the pain arresting his features.

"It's a simple arrangement. All you have to do is spend some time with me. If I try anything just do what you did then. Or a slightly less painful rebuff."

"Why?" I demand in a tone that's so low it's skimming the bathroom tiles.

"A lot of my friends are getting into serious relationships. I need to know how to talk to girls without…"

"Hitting on them?" I supply, and he nods in concession. It'd do him good to avoid hitting on them literally as well, I note as I rub my bruising back. Sirius' tone is completely flat, like an actor who is racing monotonously through his lines in an attempt to memorize them. There is no conviction behind his words. He's not putting any effort into convincing me of this flimsy construction. He obviously has ulterior motives, and they're most likely sinister in nature.

"I'll pay you extra every time you stop me from getting too friendly with you." Sirius digs out a golden coin from his pocket and holds it out to me. Even though light doesn't live in this room the galleon still manages to sparkle enticingly. That's the deal breaker right there. This whole 'arrangement' business is completely ridiculous and obviously just a tool for his sordid amusement, but I'm not going to prevent Sirius from throwing galleons in my general direction. All I've got to do is not succumb to Sirius' aggressive advances.

How hard can it be?


	11. Discourteous caterpillar

**Discourteous Caterpillar**

Wednesday. Midweek limbo. It's the thorn wedged obtrusively in the middle of the week. Monday drinks are acceptable as a crutch for coping with the commencement of another string of days, painfully similar to the ones that came before. It says something about the sorry state of humanity that we collectively detest Mondays. Shouldn't we be excited to have another week of life at our disposal?

Drinks at the end of the week are not only acceptable, it's tradition. It's expected. Wednesday drinks though, they're for people who are really struggling with making it through the seven day long haul. Wednesday is the worst day to be working at the Three Broomsticks. The hours seem to drag into eternity. I feel like I'm perpetually in the state of Wednesday. All other days feel like wishful dreams brewed to cope with the twilight of the eternal shift.

My hand pushes a tired rag in loose rotations over the bar top. I'm not really doing anything to remove the dust, I'm just pushing it somewhere else, where it'll be less obvious. A reasonable method for dealing with any problem, I find. Unfortunately I can't seem to push the haunting image of Sirius' smile from my mind. I don't enjoy his smile. There's nothing nice about it. It's a smile devoid of decency. There's something almost satanic in his smile's origins of selfish pleasure. It doesn't haunt me because it's pleasant. It haunts me because it's terrifying.

I bang my head repeatedly on the bar top, berating myself for allocating this much thought to the way Sirius inclines his lips. Madame Rosmerta saunters pass so I adapt my head banging into a sweeping motion of the forehead, as if I'm trying out an innovative new way of dusting. She continues into the backroom, taking her disapproving stare with her. I don't think she's too fond of me.

After checking that my high heeled, lipstick smothered boss isn't about to emerge from the back room I bend down and extract my personal contraband list. Shielded by the overhang of the bar top I inscribe Sirius Black into the parchment. As an afterthought I add his smile on another branch of the growing tree of contraband things. As an after afterthought I underline smile.

Speaking of the satanic smile possessing devil, Sirius meanders into the bar. I shove my list back into the confines of my sock as he sinks into the stool in front of me, on the opposite side of the bar. Sirius is one that regularly seeks the solace of a mid week drink. A dazed film of boredom prevents his smile from breaking through. His cheek slouches against his hand, his fatigued head threatening to drop on to the bar top.

"You've got dust on your forehead," he points out blankly. I find myself channeling Skively as I shrug defiantly. For all he knows dust has amazing skin purifying properties and all the face conscious girls are sporting a layer of dust nowadays. He turns away for a moment and I furtively wipe the dust away with my sleeve.

"Since when do you work here?" He demands shortly.

"Since last year."

"Oh. I guess I never noticed you until you were a rude cow to me."

I was hardly a rude cow when I first met him. I was slightly blunt, yes. Not particularly forthcoming, sure. But I don't think I qualified as rude cow status. Discourteous caterpillar, maybe.

"Does this mean you can give me free drinks?" He asks, his expression lifting momentarily.

"No," I answer curtly, dashing his unfounded hope. I'm not sure if this whole 'friend' arrangement requires me to be nice. Sure, I might hire out my friendship for the greater cause but I do possess some morals. Feigning niceties is not within my capacity. Unless I get paid extra. I wish he'd clarify the whole situation with some sort of contract, one that stipulates the method of payment. Do I get paid by the hour? Or just every time he attempts to storm my fortress?

"You're antisocial," he infers frankly. This isn't how this is supposed to work. I'm the one that points out flaws in peoples' personalities. They're not supposed to do it back to me.

"No I'm not," I refute him somewhat unwillingly. "I communicated with Mafalda Hopkirk earlier today."

"Oh yeah?" His eyebrows perk.

"Yeah. She asked me what I thought of her hair."

"And?"

"And I told her it looked like a ferret had vomited on her head," I shrug.

"Charming," he rolls his eyes lazily. "Somehow I don't think that counts as being social."

"Why not? It involved a civil exchange of words."

"Civil?" He questions pointedly.

"Well, honest at least. Let's not confuse honesty with being cruel." It's a common mistake. He wouldn't be the first to make it.

"It doesn't hurt to flirt with the truth now and then, Florence. Be a bit coy with it. I guarantee you'll get a bit further in life if you sprinkle your words with a touch of glitter," Sirius counsels me as he fans his fingers out behind his head. Glitter is trashy and deceitful. A troll smothered in glitter is still a fat, unbecoming troll. Except shinier.

Sirius rests his foot on the bar and pushes back so his stool is leaning at a precarious angle. He hooks a lazy finger in the scoop of his shirt, dragging his collar down slightly. He pokes his tongue in the cave of his cheek in a mindless, irritable fashion.

"Why don't you go hassle one your real friends? I'm trying to work." I push the rag around in a weak rotation to prove my point.

"They've recently become somewhat disposable. They've acquired a newfound obsession with studying and the like. Final year fever I guess. I prefer to spend my time doing something a bit more thrilling."

I glance around the exciting events unfolding in the Three Broomsticks. Otto is trying to sell some comical novelty glasses to a nasty looking hag in one corner. Skively is purposefully missing as he pelts nuts towards the bowl. He's creating more work for me, bless him. Willy Wagstaff is trying to snort someone's spilt sherbert from the grooves in his table's slats.

"You sure know how to have a good time," I scoff.

Sirius drops his foot suddenly, lunging over the bar so that his eyes are flashing dangerously close to my face. He tucks a stray curl back behind my ear. As his finger grazes the slope from the tip to the lobe an unknown entity rustles in the pit of my stomach.

"Don't even begin to insinuate I don't know how to have a good time," he warns with quiet ferocity. I reach for a bottle of Gilwaddle's magical cleaning fluid and spray him so that he recoils swiftly. I etch a line in the dust on the bar top.

"This is the flirting barrier. Stay on the friendship side," I instruct sternly. Maybe I should carry a squirt bottle with me permanently. This whole 'arrangement' is highly reminiscent of training Fifi's shag frenzied miniature poodle. He removes the potent drops of liquid from his face with a skilful flick.

"I can't help it. We have compatible body parts. Flirting occurs naturally," Sirius says, relaxing back into his leaning chair of unstableness.

"Just because any old letter fits in a mail slot doesn't mean the Postman has to put it there. There's a proper address for every package." I advise him wisely.

"So my package isn't addressed to your mail slot?" He snorts.

"It most certainly is not."

"You devastate me," he says flatly.

"You should pay me," I reply in kind.

Sirius freezes for a moment. His expression is caught somewhere between amusement and an unknown location. Finally he flicks a coin across the counter. I accept it gratefully, tucking it under my collar and into the seclusion of my bra.

"What?" I challenge Sirius' inquisitive stare. "My socks are full."

"My socks are full, indeed," he shakes his head. "I'll meet you after your shift," he says extending into upright position.

"You will? Why?"

"Because, Florence, you deeply offended me. I now need to prove myself to you by showing you a good time." As he stands up to leave he wipes his hand across the dust frosted counter, destroying the line I'd drawn between us. My hand clicks into overdrive as I wipe faster and faster in rapid rotations.


	12. A bartender, an umbrella and a goat

_This post is for Hannah, so that she doesn't die on me =]_

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**A bartender, an umbrella and a goat**

**.**

**.**

I lean out the door of the Three Broomsticks, just far enough for some flakes of snow to settle on my nose. My gaze darts hopefully to the flutter of robes puncturing the rhythmic downfall of white powder. Depleted, I realize it's only One Leg Lonnigan, Hogsmeade's most infamous vagrant. They say that lopsided Lonnigan blasted one of his own legs off when he mistook it for a giant flobberworm in a fire whisky induced haze. Usually he pulls himself about Hogsmeade's winding lanes on a wide, skateboard like apparatus. But at this time of year the wheels stiffen and clog with snow. So instead, he hobbles along on an old crutch.

Lonnigan has a nifty habit of hurling outrageous obscenities at people that pass him by. I have a bit of a soft spot for him. I like to think he has a soft spot for me too, seeing as he's never once been rude to me. This might be wishful thinking on my part, seeing as he is partially blind, mostly deaf and undeniably mental. I'm nudged into the full embrace of the weather as Madame Rosemerta locks the door behind us.

"Are you waiting for someone, Pet?" She scoops her abundance of frizzy locks into a thick hood.

"No," I reply stiffly. There's nothing out here but the lingering echo of Lonnigan's howls. I didn't really expect Sirius to be waiting for me. I suspected his offer might be hollow. He'll have occupied himself with something terribly interesting by now. He has the attention span of a concussed goldfish.

Turning down a snug alley I start on my usual route back to the castle. I like to walk around the back of the shops because it avoids congestion on busy nights. Tonight the streets are deserted though and I should really walk around the front where shop awnings offer some cover, but I like the back way much better. The back exits of businesses are much more honest than the gaudy advertising displays constructed in the front windows. Out the back is where you see the real, sweat inducing work happening as workers lug crates into cellars. Or it's where you see the complete lack of work as employers mill on their extended breaks, complaining about their boss, complaining about their wages and complaining about the broken stool that prevents them from having a good sit down.

Blasts of hot air burst from a kitchen door as a cook stands half outside, puffing on a cigarette and half indoors, swirling around the greasy contents of a saucepan. At the restaurant next door the distinct aroma of butterscotch sauce wafts from the kitchen window. I can't resist stopping and indulging in a whiff of the sweet smell. Butterscotch sauce is my Achilles heel. While my eyes are closed a rough arm wraps around my waist. I scream, but a gloved hand muffles the sound. As I'm dragged backwards I dig my heels down, etching a weak path in the building snow. I'm pushed up against cold bricks, not hard enough to do damage but just enough to rouse bruises tomorrow. I can sense my attacker standing in front of me but my eyes are scrunched up in fear. Tentatively I pry them open, only to see the excited expression of Sirius floating in a frame of frosty flakes. I'm not comforted. I close my eyes again.

"Florence, it's me."

"I know," I groan heavily. I find his presence far more terrifying than that of a mere murderer. Trust my emotions to be so fickle. When I thought he wasn't going to meet me I was disappointed, now that he's here I'm petrified.

"Are you ready to have some fun?"

"Is it going to be as painful as the way you say hello?"

Sirius shrugs his shoulders, a worrying reply. He seizes my hand and pulls me through a nearby door. We're in a corridor immersed in darkness. I can't tell which way the corridor unfolds but Sirius leads the way with purposeful steps. He turns back every now and then to check I'm still trundling along in the dark. All I have to go by is the lively charge of his eyes. A glint of metal on a grimy door reveals this establishment has a Ladies' bathroom. A useful fact that I tuck away for future reference. We round a corner to find dull light leaking out from under a closed door. Sirius wraps his knuckles against it in a complicated rhythm.

"Come in," a degenerate voice croaks. I grip Sirius' arm tightly.

"Where are we?"

"The Hogs Head," he answers impatiently as if this was the most obvious fact in the world. He tries to enter the room but my arm is preventing such a hasty motion.

"But it's closed. What are doing here? Robbing the place?"

"If we get lucky," He chucks my chin reassuringly before seizing my sleeve and pulling me roughly inside. Dim pools of candlelight expose a motley crew assembled around a round table. The room is obscured by a thick fog of cigar smoke. I breathe in (as is usually required when one wants to continue the pursuit of living) and I'm pretty sure that one breath has instantly caused lung cancer. I cough into my sleeve, earning the ridicule of varying sizes and breeds of men and creatures.

All eyes are on me. Eyes that are framed by ghastly scars, unnaturally taut skin and murderous expressions. As they turn their attention to Sirius, some grunting with acknowledgement, I scuttle backwards and into the corridor. Stumbling through the heavy darkness I arrive at the sanctuary that is the Ladies bathroom. I tumble inside, collapsing pathetically in a cubicle. So there it is. The blinding truth. I am a big, huge, tremendous, planet sized coward. My heart thumps as the door swings open. Lucky for Sirius I wasn't actually engaging the cubicle in its intended purpose. Sirius shakes his head at me.

"What is it with you and bathrooms?" His mouth is set in a disapproving line but his eyes reserve glimmer of amusement. I try to look casual but it's never easy when you're crouching next to a toilet in the extreme dark and hyperventilating.

"Terrible affliction I have. Fear of everything but cubicles," I say grimly.

"What's your problem then?" He asks, not bothering to hold back an air of annoyance.

"I got a bit scared." He clucks his tongue, disapprovingly.

"I think one of those men was a vampire."

"So? Just because he sucks neck every now and then doesn't mean he can't enjoy a friendly card game. Anyway, you shouldn't be so prejudiced. Bartholomew's a right laugh. You should see his Dracula impression."

"Card game?" I question, my voice highly strung with surprise.

"What did you think this was?"

"Dinner for the neighbourhood monsters and I was the buffet," I mumble pathetically, and Sirius shakes his head at me in disbelief.

"I thought you'd get a kick out this. You with your delinquent loving, rule breaking ways."

It's a popular misconception that I enjoy rule breaking. I only do it when I know I can get away with it and only as a begrudging means of making money. The thought of getting caught or in trouble makes my stomach twist and turn as if it's going for gymnastic gold at the Olympics. The whole idea of raised tones and furrowed brows is hideous. Not to mention big, threatening criminal-like men who use house elves as foot rests. I'm a criminal by default, not by choice.

"We're playing for these." Sirius waves a galleon at me like an adult enticing a child with a biscuit. My expression perks on it's own accord but I'm still not budging. He blows his fringe up lazily, clearly overwhelmingly bored with trying to coax me out. Amusement beckons him as he closes the cubicle door and sidles closer.

"Or we could just stay in here…"

I stand up fully and march out of the cubicle.

"I'll take the room full of monsters," I say, crossing my arms tightly. Sirius follows me out, letting the cubicle door swing shut with a definitive bang.

"You'll be fine," he assures me, holding out his hand. "Just don't try anything funny. Cheating infuriates Bartholomew. Tends to make him a bit peckish."

I take a deep breath and accept his impatiently waggling fingers. I'm just going to have to trust that Sirius wouldn't lead me into a dangerous situation. I'm just going to have to trust, that's all.

"Everyone, this is my friend Florence," Sirius says loudly as we re-enter the back room. Grunts of greetings are accompanied by the drawing of an additional chair. Timidly I seat myself between Sirius and the barkeep of the Hogs Head, a towering man called Aberforth. I can just interpret a grumpy impression under a mass of dirty silver hair. I believe he's looking at me suspiciously but the tangling bushes of his eyebrows render his demeanour ambiguous. I feel a little out of my depth here. At Hogwarts I can be sarcastic and superior to a bunch of clueless teenagers but here I'm small potatoes. These blokes are big tough slabs of meat.

The game commences without my participation. I don't know how to play so I'm merely a spectator in tonight's festivities. Besides, I don't think I'd risk parting with any of my coveted coins, as much as I'd like to double them with the flick of a few cards. Aberforth is trying to light his cigar but he's misplaced his wand, possibly in his beard. Hold ups like these tend to try my patience. I extract a stock lighter from my sock and hand it to him.

"Cheers," he rumbles, studying the compact lighter inquisitively.

"No problem. You can keep it for five knuts," I add in my best haggling tone, purely as a creature of habit. Surprised chuckles scatter around the table. I'm certain I spy a flicker of appreciation hiding amidst Aberforth's rippling wrinkles. The game continues, Aberforth bending down occasionally to explain the game to me. Maybe it's the second hand smoke affecting me but I feel my nerves start to disperse.

The poker game is highlighted by banter and outrageous jokes between the rugged men. As the night progresses their tough expressions soften and their scars dissolve in folds of laughter. Even Bartholomew's razor sharp teeth lose their threat while he relays a joke concerning a bartender, an umbrella and a goat. My presence isn't really acknowledged but it's not resented either. No one seems to mind me being here. I feel, for lack of a better word, accepted.

At the same time as Sirius' folded hand hits the table the door bursts open. 'One Leg' Lonnigan stands there, feverishly smacking his gums together. The flickering candlelight enhances the pits of his sunken eyes. His leathery face has the texture of a shriveled prune. He lifts a paper bag enshrined bottle to his scabby lips, dislodging his crutch from his armpit and sending it to the floor. Satisfied with the amount of thick liquor that's dribbled down his front he looks down at his side.

"Where's me crutch?" He shouts in genuine surprise before promptly falling over.

There's a kindness with which the poker players treat Lonnigan that I've never seen any of the more respectable locals of Hogsmeade bestow on him. They let him sit at the table and hold cards, even though he doesn't have any money to play with. They merely chuckle or shout jovially back at him when he hurls obscenities and tells them that they're the homely spawn of flobberworms.

They calmly bat his swaying hand away as he tries to seize the money piled in the middle of the table without growing impatient. A man called Darby, comprised completely of tattoos and muscles, hauls One Leg upright every time he topples out of his chair.

"There's the floor!" Lonnigan splutters with wonder each time he loses balance and falls hard against it, as if he'd been searching for it's elusive location the whole time. The dingy room fills with deep booming laughter that stirs the candles' flames into a flickering frenzy. Suddenly the room floods with tension as Lonnigan's bleary eyes narrow in on me. Everyone pauses as he points his crutch across the table, knocking drinks over with an unsteady sway.

"You're a a girley," he spits, discharging an unhealthy chunk of phlegm. This is it. This is the moment when I'm finally going to experience the rambling wrath of One Leg Lonnigan. Aberforth raises his finger warningly. Suddenly, Lonnigan's crutch swings to the left and slaps Sirius on the cheek rendering him completely stunned.

"This is no place to take a Lady," Lonnigan reprimands Sirius, constructing the most coherent sentence he's uttered in decades. The poker players roar with laughter, except for a glum Goblin who finds the whole social aspect of the evening tiresome.

As the hearty laughter resonates around us Sirius shoots a coy glance at me. My lips twitch in response and he seems satisfied. I'll deny it outright but I think he knows I don't find the social aspect of tonight tiresome at all.


	13. Give it a good whack

**Give it a good whack**

**.**

I'm teetering on the dodgy bathroom's lopsided desk that's been dragged underneath the broken pipe. I frown at the gash in the plumbing. The plan had been to fix it but as I stare hopelessly at my wand, I realize I don't know the appropriate spell. Really, I should've thought my plan of attack through before climbing to such a dizzying height.

I bang my wand pathetically against the pipe. If anything the flow of water seems to increase. Bollocks. The old 'give it a good whack' method of repair doesn't seem to be working. I trace a finger round the back of pipe, feeling how far the crack goes. The hem of my robes rises to a risqué level as I stretch my arms upwards.

Lucky I'm alone. I glance down to the sink where the eyes of Otto's toads are bulging creepily. Only yesterday they were tadpoles swimming in innocence and naivety, now they're sleazy old toads sneaking peeks up a girl's skirts.

"Perverts," I reprimand the slimy creatures.

"Pervert," a startlingly close voice corrects me. Warm breath tickles the exposed underside of my knee. "Singular, not plural. There's only one of me." A gasp of surprise mutates into a yelp of fright as I twist around and feel balance escaping me. Sirius puts his arms out ready to catch me. I flail mid-fall in order to avoid such a disgustingly gallant move.

I fall on to him at an awkward angle. He's thrown backwards under my splayed limbs. We land abruptly on the floor. Luckily, my landing is cushioned by Sirius. Unfortunately for him, his landing is cushioned by hard tiles. I'm lying across him not daring to move in case all my bones dislocate. His chest deflates as he lets out a long moan.

"Is your neck broken?" I inquire casually, poking my own just to be sure. He replies in another indecipherable moan. At least his ability to moan isn't broken. A minute of pained silence passes. I rise and fall with the heaving of his chest. At least he's still breathing. I'm still not willing to get off him, just incase it brings some massive injury to my attention that will only be stirred by movement.

"I knew one day you'd try and jump me but I didn't think you'd do it so literally," he grunts finally.

"I'm not taking any responsibility for this, you practically climbed up my skirt." He begins to laugh but then decides against it when he experiences the painful consequences.

"Sorry to interrupt…"

I see Dung's grubby shoes enter the bathroom from my upside down position, promptly turn around and limp out again. His reaction brings something to my attention. I'm lying across Sirius. His hard body is trapped beneath mine. It feels so comfortable I hardly even noticed. My muscles contract as I quickly jump off him, despite the whining objection of my bones.

I slide behind the desk and seize a pile of notes to be signed with Madame Pomfrey's curt signature. Ten minutes later Sirius hauls himself off the floor and joins me. He wrenches half the pile of parchment from my reluctant grip, seizes a quill, and begins to help.

"So, did you have fun last night?" His expression is slightly pained but he's not giving into the indignity of complaining.

"It was alright," I answer quickly. "Do you make much money from it? Gambling I mean." He shrugs, disinterestedly.

"I just play for fun. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose."

"But if you practice hard enough, can you win all the time?" I try to sustain an air of innocent curiosity but he's seen right through it.

"Oh no you don't. Don't start getting ideas. It's precisely the reason I never take Dung to a game there. He'd never leave. Not alive at least."

I pretend to shrug the subject from my attention but the seed of an idea is nestled firmly in my brain, being warmly nurtured by my cancerous lust for money. It's taken painstaking care to get my finances to where they are the today and I'm much to cowardly to risk losing it all in a card game. Still, it is a tempting back up plan if ever I need it.

"Why are you so obsessed with money?" I quaver under Sirius' solid gaze. I wonder if he's naturally as blunt as I am or whether he just enjoys turning my boldest trait against me.

"It's not the money, I just really want to move out."

"Why?"

"Why did you move out?" I ask, turning the question on him.

"Unsatisfactory family situation," he says clinically. I nod in general agreement. After a moment's hesitation he pulls a sleeve up to reveal a series of circular burns marking the smooth bulge of his upper arm. My stomach squirms uncomfortably at the sight of leathery skin that once bubbled under searing heat.

"I'm sorry," I offer awkwardly. I don't think I've ever apologized before. I suppose the fact that I'm not the one responsible for the burns made the process easier. But still, sympathy is a foreign concept that's sitting uncomfortably in my scant store of emotions.

'No damage done," he jokes, but his smile is lacking humour.

"So, what's your family's preferred form of torture?" I fidget with my thumbnail, tearing the softening texture where it will yield. I suddenly feel overwhelmed with pettiness.

My family doesn't torture me and they certainly don't scald my skin until it's deformed. I'm sufficiently provided for, I'm fed and clothed and my school requirements are met without any gripe. I have nothing in common with my dad, we hardly converse but that's not his fault.

I don't think we particularly like each other but there's still that unconditional paternal love, even if sometimes it stems more from obligation than genuine affection. Fifi is horrid but she's insignificant. She barely register's in my attentions. A lot of the time I feel ignored at home. The stale atmosphere can be stifling and is part of the reason why I desperately want to move out.

But compared to Sirius', my problems are gapingly trivial. I know in the wider scheme of things, I'm lucky. There are thousands of kids who are assaulted in ways to horrible to imagine and my deepest worries are feeling a little bit ignored by slightly inattentive parents.

I've never been close enough to anyone before to have a model to compare my problems to. The structure of this false friendship is becoming dangerously flimsy. There's been willing participation in fun involved on my part and now ease in sharing intimate details. Sirius interprets my embarrassment exposing itself on my cheeks. The fact that he can read my emotions so expertly is another cause for worry. Our friendship is mutating into something real and I find it terrifying.

"Everyone has problems with their family, Florence," he says kindly but it only makes me feel even more stupid for being so sensitive about my own. Still, they are my problems. Therefore I'll stubbornly exaggerate and amplify them till they dictate my life, as is the custom of completely selfish creatures.

"It's not the only reason I want to move out," I admit defensively. It feels strange to be voicing the deep seeded motives for my obsession with getting my own apartment, especially since I barely admit them to myself.

"Care to elaborate?"

Luckily I don't have too.

"What's that sound?" Sirius winces as a warbling tune echoes from the corridor. I groan with the pain that knowledge can bring.

"Doris Purkiss." His expression is mute; he doesn't seem to be aware of her existence.

"I think it'd be for the best if you hid right about now."

"Why? Embarrassed to be seen with me?" He scoffs incredulously.

"Doris might defile you." He arches an eyebrow that's not at all surprised but remotely curious. I think Doris' outlandish opera singing acts as a sufficient warning as he finally lugs himself into a cubicle.


	14. Roaming wands and kinky house elves

**Roaming wands and kinky house elves**

**.**

**.**

"So I exchanged words with Edith Whitby," Doris states loudly and proudly. She's reclining in a seat I imagine is still warm from Sirius' body. If she were aware of this she'd probably convulse with pleasure.

"Who?" I ask distractedly. I'm finding it difficult adjusting my defense system from the probing questions of Sirius to Doris' mindless bombardment.

"Edith."

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"Edith!" she echoes herself, as if louder pronunciation will inspire my memory. I stare blankly at her.

"Edith. E-dith. Edith, Florence," she repeats getting slightly flustered. I continue to stare blankly at her, partly because I know it's infuriating her.

"The Hufflepuff girl in your year. Sleeps in the bed next to you?" She clutches the desk with her pudgy fingers. Her beady eyes look ready to burst with frustration. A vague recollection tickles the rim of my memory.

"Is she the dumpy one?"

"That's the one," Doris snorts. She shouldn't really be ridiculing Edith, Doris isn't exactly on the svelte side herself. In fact, her plump hand is clutching greedily for a chocolate frog as we speak. I slap her sharply on the hand.

"What? Do I have to pay?"

"Well yes but really Doris, do you think you should?" I look her up and down pointedly. For a moment her face becomes blotchy with anger but then it subsides as it so often does, to my extreme detriment. It might be cruel but just once I want her to snap.

"You are a complete beast, Florence," she says almost affectionately. "So as I was saying, I managed to corner Edith and get her to dish the dirt."

"How delightful for you."

"It was hard work, actually. I felt like a dentist trying to extract words from her. Eventually she confessed that you got in rather late the other night." She seems to wiggle her entire forehead at me suggestively.

"So?" There are rare moments when Doris emerges from her self obsessed coma to channel Bertha Jorkins and become disgustingly interested in other people's affairs. I don't doubt that this is one of them.

"You haven't taken up a lover, have you Florence?" Her dimples blossom as the frame of a cheeky smile.

"Yes Doris. I've acquired a lover. We shag at regular intervals. We shag the night away and then twice before breakfast. And Edith likes to watch." My exasperation is hurtling me to new heights of creativity. Doris looks completely scandalized, foolish girl. She hasn't had a sarcasm radar installed like her pimply teenage peers.

"Slight over share of information." She draws her cloak tightly around her, feigning modesty.

"You think that's over share?" I'll give her over share. "We've shagged in broom closets, in the Black Lake, on a broomstick, in the Forbidden Forest, in the kitchen (the house elves were ready with the whipped cream), in a toilet cubicle-"

"Well, there have been rumours but I never believed-"

"Under the Quidditch bleachers, behind Lachlan the Lanky, in front of the Sorting Hat, wait…what? What do you mean there have been rumours?" It's one thing for me to take a creative cruise to fantasyland but when other people brandish artistic license with my personal life, well, that's a tad creepy.

"You do the deed with someone like him, the walls whisper," she wiggles her fingers dramatically.

"Someone like who, Doris?" My lover is fictional, last time I checked. Someone's clearly telling tales, and I doubt it's the inanimate walls.

"Don't start being coy now, Florence." I lunge across the desk and seize the neck of Doris' robes.

"Who's being coy?" I hiss through tensed lips. Her gum gnawing jaw is gyrating mere milimetres from my face. She seems unperturbed by the fact I'm perfectly capable of ripping her face off.

"Temper, temper. What's happened to you? You used to be so composed, Florence. Looks like your lover has rattled your nerves." The wet sound of her gum smattered teeth clashing against each other really grinds my gears.

I release Doris and sink back into my chair. I bend down, yanking my shoelaces out of their entwined embrace so that I can retie them with more efficiency than they were previously bestowed. If you can control your shoelaces, you can control your life, that's my motto.

What has happened to me? Doris has always irritated me but I've never allowed her to push me to the brink of violence before. I suppose it's more the gossip that's got me worked up but I'm not a stranger to the procedure of Hogwarts' rumours. Castle gossip tends to be wholly fanciful or at least exaggerated to the point of distortion. The more roaming wands and kinky house elves involved, the better.

Then why am I so bothered? I've never acknowledged the inane babble of the teenage race. It seems as if since Sirius has torn down the barrier that shielded me from other people. Now slivers of gossip and bullets of judgment are gently eroding my carefully constructed composure.

Or is it more the fact that Sirius is quite possibly the counterpart and/or source of this rumour? That's more likely. He is the sole source of anything that manages to get my knickers in a twist. Well, I'm better than this. I can fight the frustration he inspires in me. And I can fight the urge to sucker punch Doris, as sorely tempting as it is.

"Will that be all, Doris?" I adopt the cold hostility that I wear so well.

"No. There's one other thing."

"Please elaborate," I request mechanically.

"I've recently come into an inheritance, got a lot of money to burn." I'm overcome by a sense of doom as familiarity ricochets between her words.

"I've got a proposition for you."

Maybe she wants to pay me to be her friend, too. Maybe I've unknowingly transformed into a necessary accessory for popularity while I wasn't looking. If Doris is seeking a friendship anything like Sirius' though, I think I'll have to pass. I can always kick Sirius in the gonads if he gets fresh but if Doris tries to forcefully snog me, her fat rolls will be impossible shackles to escape from.

"You've recently come into an inheritance?" I prompt her. The unjust nature of the universe really likes to flaunt itself jauntily in my face. Left right and centre my peers are getting handed piles of money by the generous deceased. Meanwhile I'm being offered nothing but dodgy propositions. Justice is extinct.

"Yes. Auntie Polly kicked the bucket. Dear soul." Doris pouts momentarily before her frown smoothly swings into a joy injected smile. "But we mustn't dwell on these things, I'm sure they happen for a reason."

Maybe these things do happen for a reason. But I highly doubt Auntie Polly exited this world so Doris could have a bit of extra pocket money.

"And I finally have the financial means to make a realistic bid for Sirius Black."

Sirius Black. The same desired person that I'd quite forgotten is hiding in a toilet cubicle as we speak.

"Listen Mental Maggie, I told you I don't do kidnaps," I hiss through gritted teeth, hoping the intensity of my tone will force her to drop the subject. I don't want Sirius to later manipulate this conversation as a bragging strike to how desirable he is. Although maybe I shouldn't rule kidnap out. I should really inquire just how hefty this inheritance this is. My morals are extinct.

"I thought you'd say something terribly boring like that. So I've altered my request." She strategically pours out a small mountain of glittering discs of gold in front of me. Well played Doris, I'm yours. Have your way with me right here on the desk, if you wish.

"I want an item of Sirius'."

"Hush, you bellowing child!" I urge her vehemently. My eyes flicker to Sirius' hiding place. This is sounding like a business transaction that could prove not only possible, but could seal the deal for a deposit. I could move out next holidays, I realize with a flourish of hope as my eyes hungrily reside on the pile of money.

"Why?" She implies a whisper but really she's still trumpeting as loudly as an elephant with a karaoke addiction.

"Because the walls whisper," I wiggle my fingers dramatically, echoing her gesture earlier. Her eyebrows dive into the region of her nose as she considers me with bewilderment.

"It's a watch," she continues in her false whisper. "An antique pocket watch that he keeps in his pocket, funnily enough. He always carries it with him. Sometimes he just stands there and strokes it…"

A portion of drool threatens to scale the barrier of her fleshy lips. I've got no doubt she's imagining what it would be like to be the pocket watch. I'm sure she wouldn't mind being sentenced to a life spent jiggling around in his pocket, with nothing but a thin stretch of material to separate her from his man tools.

"So all I have to do is get you the watch and you'll give me all that money?" I whisper desperately.

"Yes. Put your pick pocketing skills to good use, Florence," she puts her finger on her nose and for a moment I'm worried it might drown in the fleshy bauble.

"I'll think about it."

As Doris flounces out of the room, taking her delectable pile of money with her, I can do nothing but think about the proposition. A strange, unfamiliar emotion is tugging at my liver. I believe normal people refer to it as 'guilt.'

Should I rule out stealing from Sirius, in the name of friendship? Still, there is the blaring technicality that this is a false friendship. We're not really friends. I'm just Sirius' new puppet monkey that fulfills the functions Dung can't, in his manly glory. My only function is for his lustful amusement. Then why is guilt still stirring?

At the end of the day though, I have to remind myself that money is my only friend. Not only that, it's my only love, desire and object of lust. It's my first priority. So there should be no question as to my course of actions, I reprimand myself. Unless Sirius heard the entire conversation. I'd better check. I slink into the cubicle. Sirius appears to be slumped on the toilet seat in an impromptu slumber. This could all be a clever ruse though.

"Sirius, I'm taking my clothes off. I'm finally going to let you ravish me." His eyelids remain determinedly shut. That settles it. He's definitely asleep. I stand over him and watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His face, undressed from that vulgar smirk and pillaging gaze, looks almost innocent. He looks so vulnerable.

Vulnerable enough for his pocket to be picked. I place my legs on either side of his with extreme caution so that I'm hovering over him. I have to maneuver my nimble fingers under his draping shirt that's inconveniently making passage to his pocket a lot more treacherous.

His breath caresses my furrowed brow as I lightly lift the mouth of his pocket. One at a time I slip a tense finger in. His pocket is deep. I'm going to have to allow for more contact if I want to make any progress. Maybe if I take the swift method associated with removing plasters, he won't feel a thing. Hastily I plunge my hand in further. I freeze as he lightly stirs. With a sharp movement his eyelids flutter open.

I've been rendered immobile by the horror of this situation. I've been caught in the textbook definition of a compromising position. My hand is one opening away from being shoved down his pants. And that awful smile has swelled from sleep into existence with disconcerting speed. Busted.

"What are you doing?" He inquires quietly. A particle of dust wouldn't be rustled by his restrained breath.

"Feeling you up?" I suggest jokingly. The rigid stillness we're both maintaining is palpable. It feels dangerous and flimsy. It feels like it's going to erupt into chaos at any moment. With startling agility his hands have seized my hips and pulled me into a sitting position so that I'm straddling his lap.

His voice assaults me with a splintering growl. "My turn."


	15. A randy ant

**A randy ant**

**.**

**.**

My legs jolt into defiance but his hand has already slipped under my shirt. His icy touch sends paralyzing ripples through my body. My limbs are subdued.

"Stop it," I mumble pathetically.

"Say it like you mean it," he teases. His fingertips outline the organic line of my chest. He's arrested by slight confusion as he comes across a peculiar bulge.

"It's my money bag," I insist, blushing a deep shade of humiliation.

"You're telling me," he laughs softly.

"Sirius, stop it," I say with a smidge more force but still not enough to deter a randy ant. His curious fingers have changed direction. They're now heading southward at a tantalizing pace. He reaches the border of my skirt. Undaunted, his fingers trace along the band. I gasp as one finger digs under the rim and flicks the elastic.

"Stop it now," I try once more. I'm still lacking conviction. Sirius' fickle fingers once again change route. With a swift movement they plunge into my pocket, mimicking my own hand that's still stationed in his.

I'm quite surprised I haven't moved it yet. I'm quite surprised I haven't moved my whole body yet. My toe wiggles in an attempt to follow my mind's screaming order of retreat. His hand caresses my thigh through the pocket's thin lining.

"Please stop?" Sirius chuckles softly at the feeble thread of my voice. But then he does stop. I don't know if I approve of his sudden obedience. Scattered sounds request my attention. Someone's outside. Horrified of being caught in this position I try to jump off him but he holds my legs down fast.

I mouth desperately at him to let me go, trying to not let a scrap of sound escape from the cubicle. Sirius senses my mortification at the thought of being caught in here with him. He gains great pleasure from it. I struggle silently as he pulls my body closer to his. His mouth is on mine. He predicts every jerk of my head. His lips follow mine in an inescapable kiss.

All I want to do is yell at him to let me go. But he knows I won't because I don't want to draw attention to our whereabouts. While anger is roaring in my head in reality not a peep of sound is being made, except the barely audible collision of lips on lips. Finally the intruder leaves the deceptively empty bathroom.

A growl burgeons from me as I wrench out of his grip. I rip down the shelf above his head so that his triumphant smirk is lost in an avalanche of books. I'll never get tired of that painful sight.

"You've gone too far this time Sirius," I pant, drawing out my wand defensively.

"There's no such thing as too far," he replies, calmly picking the contraband books off of his lap.

"Are you completely mental? Of course there is! That was indecent assault!"

"That's rich, coming from the girl who tried to fondle me while I was asleep," he scoffs. My mouth flaps lamely. I can't think of a reasonable excuse as to why else I was exploring his pocket.

"You're just angry because you were enjoying it," he plows on.

"I was not. I was shell shocked, that's all." Yes, shell shocked. There are clearly many parallels between me and a soldier trapped in the claustrophobic trenches, driven to insanity due to the constant onslaught of bombs. Except mine are kissing bombs.

"I'm just trying to get you to lighten up a bit, Florence. There's nothing wrong with messing around. As much as you don't like to admit it, you are a teenager. Get on the harmless fun bandwagon already."

"You can't just do things because they're fun," I scowl, yanking my jumper as far down to modesty as it can go. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, trying to wipe any trace of him off of me.

"Yes you can. That's the entire point of being young. You're failing miserably."

"Oh what, so if I found delight in dancing naked in the pale moonlight with a toad should I do that?"

"Yes!" He roars with exasperation. His gaze slips down to my body as he envisions the sight. "For Merlin's sake, it's just not right that you spend your spare time in a dirty bathroom plotting ridiculous schemes to make money. I think you're better than this. I want to help you. I want to introduce you to the concept of fun."

"Why do you even care? We wouldn't be friends if it wasn't for your newfound habit of giving me money." For a fragile moment he looks wounded. Then his expression hardens, banishing all evidence of weakness. He pulls on his detached air of superiority, his standard wall of defense.

"I don't know, I guess I feel sorry for you."

I flinch under the pressure of his bruising words. His arms rise uncomfortably, emitting a slight air of regret.

"Get out," I demand harshly. All pretenses of regret quickly dissipate.

"Fine but you owe me a galleon," he thrusts his hand out, changing his tune swiftly back to aggressive. "You didn't stop me soon enough," he explains. I shove my hand down my collar and draw out a warm coin. I drop it into his hand, sharply avoiding contact. He seems shocked that I gave it up so easily.

I push the cubicle door open. It feels like a decade has passed before he finally shuffles out of the thick tension in the cubicle. I collapse onto the toilet seat. I yank my shoelaces out of their firm knot and tie them so tightly that they're cutting into my skin.

I'm not weak. I certainly don't need anyone feeling sorry for me. He's just stripped me of all qualms I had about stealing his precious watch. Only thing is, that pocket was empty. There's still three more to search.


	16. Rotations of the Hogwarts rumour mill

_**A/N: Wonderful reviews! Thanks gang. Sorry this chapter is short and kind of blah. I wrote this years ago and I just don't really have the time at the moment to ****improve it. Sozzles. **_

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**The rotations of the Hogwarts rumour mill**

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"What do people think of me, Dung?"

My dirty companion is swinging lazily in a hammock strung between a sink and a cubicle. Ever since Sirius declared that I was anti-social I've been growing more and more self-conscious. And now that he's implied I'm a frigid bore my confidence seems to be slipping down a steep slope to low self-esteem.

"Honestly? They think you're a bit of a bitch. They think you're stuck up, that you think you're better than everyone else."

"Well, don't hold anything back," I interrupt him. Dung has no intention of holding anything back as he propels his hammock into violent swings by pushing off the damp wall.

"And people think you're giving Skively an extra good reason to skive off class, if you catch my drift. "

"What?" My eyes narrow dangerously. "Where do they get impression from?" The dancing quill drops from my hand. Dung's hammock slows to a standstill.

"Skively. His imagination is running away with him again," he shrugs his shoulders disinterestedly.

"That little scab. I'm going to skin him alive." Looking down I see I've shredded my quill into a pile of feathers. All this time I thought Skively saw me as a mother figure. Incestuous cretin. So he's the source of my scandalous rumours.

I should have known, Doris would have chopped my feet off and worn them as earrings if she thought I was bedding Sirius. Seeing how calmly I reacted to this nugget of information, Dung decides to enlighten me further to the rotations of the Hogwarts rumour mill.

"I've also been putting it out there that you might be shagging Sirius." This is a minor aftershock to the mounting disgust I'm experiencing while imagining Skively's pimple riddled body touching mine.

"Cheers, Dung," I mumble sarcastically.

"Sometimes I feel it necessary to voice my suspicions," he explains. "You better watch it Florence, you're getting a bit of a reputation."

"And I'm doing it while hardly moving from this bathroom. I guess I'm pretty flexible." Dung snorts appreciatively at my crude joke.

"Joking aside, how did you get such an unnatural thought wedged in your unfortunately undersized brain?" Dung deflects my dig, as he always does.

"Sirius has been spending a lot of time down here…" he observes, while lighting a pipe engraved with initials that clearly don't belong to him.

"And it's not me he wants to see anymore," he finishes, his rough features disappearing behind a cloud of thick smoke. Do I detect a hint of jealousy in Dung's gruff voice?

"We have an arrangement." I offer meekly.

"Well, you wouldn't be the first," Dung says.

"It's different."

"Is it really?" He asks doubtfully.

"I don't know," I bite my lip. Dung's probably right. I bet countless knickers have dropped at the hands of the plutonic friendship scam. I feel slightly miserable that I fell for it so easily. I'm supposed to be smarter than this.

"Don't get me wrong, I worship Sirius," Dung continues, puffing smartly on his pilfered pipe. "I'd trust him with my life. I just wouldn't trust him with my daughter."

Personally I don't think it'll be a concern. If Dung doesn't learn the art of washing soon, I doubt he'll reach the reproductive stage that leads to child rearing. The bathroom door swings open, bouncing off the stone wall. Otto pops half his body through the doorframe. His robes are splattered with a pink slime and he's conspicuously missing his eyebrows.

"Filch is updating the list!" He says rosily before running off again. Usually this revelation inspires terror in my heart, because it means that I have to perform the risky task of trying to get a copy of the new list.

Rule breaking doesn't come easy to me. It gives me the willies. And the thought of Filch coming anywhere near me with his trove of torture tools gives me industrial strength willies. But at this present moment the challenge of getting the new contraband list is a welcome distraction from the dilemma of Sirius Black and his highly coveted watch.


	17. The lion hugging Gryffindor

**The Lion Hugging Gryffindor**

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Stealing Sirius' watch is proving difficult. This is mainly because I'm not really trying. I'm avoiding him like the bubonic plague. I don't think I can handle it if Sirius gives me any more constructive criticism on my shortcomings.

I get it. I have some social issues. I'm lacking an abundance of friends. I've got an unhealthy obsession with money. I'm aware of all this and I don't have a problem with it. I don't need him suggesting that I do. And here the dilemma lies. My two greatest desires are battling it out. My desire for the watch and my desire never to be in the vicinity of Sirius again.

"Pass the butter," A coarse voice demands. There's something distinctly un-Hufflepuff about that voice. It's not humble enough. It's more like…a roar. I turn to its owner, the lion hugging Gryffindor.

"Well if you're not going to pass it can you at least butter my buns for me?" The voice ripples with a familiarly suggestive lilt.

"This is the Hufflepuff table," I say sternly to Sirius.

"This is a knife." He says educationally, as if we're playing a game of identify the object. "And there's the butter, right next to your elbow."

"I don't think you're allowed to sit here."

"Nonsense, I'm sure Dumbledore would encourage a bit of fraternizing between houses."

"I'm not fraternizing with you," I state shortly.

"Are you sure about that?" His hand slips under the table an falls just above my knee. He traces an imaginary circle that gets wider with each rotation. His fraternizing comes to an abrupt halt as I launch my fork towards his other hand. He moves it out of the way just in time, the fork sticking into the table with surprising force.

"You deserve a galleon for that," he says, half impressed, half grateful that his fingers are still intact. I wasn't aware we were still playing the friendship game. I muster enough indifference to ignore him.

"Come on, Florence. Get over it already," he orders while dipping his sausage in the yolk of my egg. Is this really his idea of an apology?

"You're not welcome here, Sirius," I say firmly.

"Yes he his!" A misty-eyed third year girl protests. She's been trying to hand Sirius the butter for the last ten minutes. I glare her into submission. Her eyes drop obediently to her porridge and her lips fasten accordingly.

Good Hufflepuff. Sirius winks at her as he accepts the butter. The child seems to tremble with excitement. He should be arrested for that. Really, she's prepubescent.

"So, what are you doing above ground?" Sirius thinks if he engages me in a casual conversation I'll forget how deeply he insulted me.

"Even a heartless, fun hating wench needs to be fed and watered."

"So you agree with me?" He tries to joke but I'm not having any of it. "I haven't seen you down there at all, lately."

"Maybe it's because I'm so dull, I camouflage against the grey walls."

"No, really. Where have you been?" He asks, getting slightly agitated.

"Around. I thought you'd be pleased I've been getting out and about."

"I suppose so. I didn't take into account how hard it would be to find you if you were moving. I've missed our bathroom sessions." Dorothy Pitwither spits out her orange juice in shock. I'd like to assure her it's not as dirty as it sounds but it pretty much is.

"I mean the talking," he clarifies. "You on one side of the desk and me on the other. Although if you ever wanted to get on top of the desk I wouldn't object."

Dorothy spits out her second gulp of orange juice. I move her glass out of her reach so she won't have another chance to shower us all with that vitamin C goodness. Some Hufflepuffs have such delicate sensibilities.

Amos Diggory, sitting next to Dorothy the orange juice dispenser, has been staring at Sirius through a cloud of confusion for the entire tenure of his visit to the Hufflepuff table. Finally, the source of his befuddlement surfaces.

"You're not in Hufflepuff, are you?" He jabs an interrogative fork at him that wavers with a dash of uncertainty.

"Yes I am," Sirius jests with utmost confidence.

"No…no I'm certain you're not, Sirius," Amos squints his suspicious eyes at him.

"Really, I am. See, detentions weren't making an impact on me so they decided to give me a harsher punishment. I've been demoted to the rank of a Hufflepuff."

As much as I enjoyed seeing Hufflepuffs riled up, and believe me I do, now is the perfect opportunity for me to make my getaway. If Sirius had to sit next to me at all, it's a shame he didn't sit on the other side. Then at least I could've explored his right pocket while he explored his inability to apologize.

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**A/N: Again sorry that it's a bit short. Have a nice day! **


	18. Lion prowess

**Your lion prowess is frightening the badgers**

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"Listen pet, can I commandeer your seat?"

I can sense Edith slide out of the chair next to me and a new body settling into it's creaking limbs.

"Can I borrow your quill?" I turn to the left hopefully and then turn to the right in disappointment. Again, he's chosen to sit on the wrong side for plundering his profitable pockets.

"You can't be in here, Sirius. Your lion prowess is frightening the badgers."

"What do you want from me, Florence? An apology?" The last word he utters is conveyed with some distaste.

"No. I just want you to leave me alone."

"Well, I'm not going to. I don't care if our friendship started out as a scam because I enjoy your company, even when my hand isn't up your shirt." I drop my head on my desk as my classmates drop their jaws. And I thought I was never going to live kissing Sturgis Podmore down.

"I'm sorry I accurately pin pointed some of your flaws and suggested ways you could improve them, in much the same way you do to everyone you ever meet," he rattles off in the insincere tone of a child being forced to apologize for hassling a sibling.

"I don't do that to everyone. That's a slight exaggeration."

"Who here has been criticized by Florence Penniworth?" Sirius asks loudly.

The Hufflepuffs arms rise unanimously. Edith raises a timid finger. Even Professor Flitwick raises a stout arm. Flitwick stares at Sirius much like Amos did at breakfast.

"Mr. Black, you're not in this year, are you? You're one of my seventh year boys."

"I'm repeating this class, Sir. To improve my grades."

"But your grades are excellent," Flitwick points out.

"There's always room for improvement," Sirius winks in what I'm sure he's been misinformed to be a very charming manner.

"Yes, I suppose…" Flitwick flicks through his notes, slightly disorientated. Well done for noticing his age, my vertically challenged educator but minus points for not noticing that Sirius isn't even a Hufflepuff. As Flitwick turns towards the dusty blackboard Sirius leans his chair over so that it's propped against mine. He wraps an arm around the back of my chair for support.

"You of all people shouldn't be so sensitive," he whispers in my ear. I spy more than one strained neck trying to catch our conversation. Maybe I am being a tad bit of a Touchy Tina. People have said much worse disparaging remarks about me and it never made a dent in my indifferent armour.

"I don't really feel sorry for you. That was the wrong choice of words. I just think you should work less and play a little harder," Sirius says.

"I don't want to work less," I insist loudly.

"That's the spirit!" Flitwick replies while etching looping white letters across the blackboard.

"I just want to make enough money so I can support myself. That's the only thing I care about," I say with complete sincerity.

"Let me help you," he urges, pushing a galleon across the desk.

"You can't buy my friendship…again." He pushes two more gold coins across the table. My fingers automatically creep towards them.

"Maybe you can." I finger the gold coins longingly. "Can I think about it?"

He nods. His smile is presumptuously victorious. I scowl slightly as he tugs the coins out of my grasp and pockets them. Before he can leave the room Flitwick is grasping at his jumper. "Where do you think you're going, Mr. Black?"

"My improvement has reached full capacity," Sirius says cockily before striding out of the classroom.

Maybe I should try to 'get over it already' and return to the friendship charade. It would be a new stepping-stone for me, this new fangled concept called forgiveness. I think it might improve my personality, however begrudgingly.

I've taken the constructive criticism on board and I'm ready to consider giving Sirius a second chance. The fact that being in close contact with him will make seizing the pocket watch easier has nothing to do with it. Nor do the glittering coins factor in anywhere.

Maybe my personality improvement hasn't quite reached full capacity.


End file.
